


Black Honey

by Gia279



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A bit of gore, Everyone is aged up a bit, Fandom Cares, Horror, Labyrinth - Freeform, M/M, Mild Concussion, beta reader insisted I needed those tags, canon divergent from season 2, creature of the week, everyone made it to adulthood i refuse to accept any deaths, horror movie scenarios, mythical creatures, semi-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 05:47:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15834999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gia279/pseuds/Gia279
Summary: Stiles picked up the pace. “This counts as my cardio for theweek!” he called. The need for silence had obviously past. “I’m not kidding! If one of you shows up at my place claiming it’s time to run, I’ll kick your ass!”Thin, distant laughter reached his ears.





	Black Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Auriette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auriette/gifts).



> Hi! This is for [Auriette](http://auriette.tumblr.com/), from the Fandom Cares auction I participated in! It's a bit longer than the 1.5k bid but, um, I really hope you enjoy it! :D 
> 
> The title really means nothing, just the song I listened to the most while writing.

Stiles held his breath, jittering his fingers on his knee. He was basically alone, which made the crashing and snarling seem that much more ominous. He had to wait a little longer. He let out his breath. 

The pack was nearby; he wasn’t _completely_ alone.

But it certainly felt like it. That was the point, but Stiles didn’t have to be happy about it.

The crashing grew louder, then paused.

Stiles’s heart was pounding already.

Something snuffled behind him.

Stiles squeezed his fists. He rocked forward on the balls of his feet but held his ground. He had to wait for the–

His phone vibrated once in his pocket. Stopped. Six second pause. Vibrated again.

Stiles shot forward like a sprinter off the block. 

The manticore roared and gave chase.

Crappy as the situation was, Stiles grinned. The plan was going to work. He knew it was, he was basically a genius. Though he supposed a genius wouldn’t use themselves as bait. 

A glance back revealed the manticore in all its hideous glory; it snapped its jaws in frustration. It had three rows of teeth that Stiles did _not_ want to become acquainted with.

Stiles picked up the pace. “This counts as my cardio for the _week!_ ” he called. The need for silence had obviously past. “I’m not kidding! If one of you shows up at my place claiming it’s time to run, I’ll kick your ass!”

Thin, distant laughter reached his ears. They were within hearing range, at least. 

Not that he thought they’d have gone far. They were just a bit disorganized and as the resident human whose ass was on the line, that was a…bit of a concern. 

Something lashed at a tree beside him, sending bark spraying. 

He yelped, slapping a hand over his cheek where a piece had ricocheted and hit him. “Shit.” The spike of terror and adrenaline pushed him faster. 

The manticore made an answering sound, caught somewhere between a snarl and a growl and sped up.

Stiles was grateful Scott and the rest had talked him into working out with them. He’d never have stayed ahead of this thing if he hadn’t spent the last couple years trying to keep up with a bunch of werewolves.

He glanced back and grinned.

It had fallen significantly behind.

Before he could feel too good about himself, something caught under his foot. He lurched forward, throwing his hands out to catch himself. Bark dug into his palms, gouging cuts in his skin. He shot to his feet and looked back, panting.

A backpack. He’d tripped over a backpack. Furious, he took a half-step forward, faltering midway through it as he realized what the backpack meant. 

There were campers somewhere in the woods, close by.

The manticore turned to the left, shuffling off the path he’d been leading it down. 

It was a monster, but it was also an animal—or several animals, actually, but that was beside the point—and Stiles was making dinner difficult to come by. Unsuspecting campers most likely wouldn’t be putting up as much of a fight.

Stiles cursed his luck and hurled a fallen branch at the thing. 

The branch bounced off its shoulder; it roared and charged, galloping on four legs that carried it far too fast.

Stiles scrambled back, his legs tangling together. He stayed upright, somehow, and bolted.

Heavy thuds struck a tree trunk in his path; a row of spines stuck out of it. The tree began wilting as the venom spread. 

He looked back automatically, like some kind of idiot.

The manticore’s tail arched, preparing to shoot more spines.

Stiles ducked left. He winced when another tree took the hit. He made it back to the path and bore down. He didn’t know how far it could propel the spines, and he’d rather not test it. He hadn’t even known it could shoot the spines; he’d just thought they were venomous and that they should stay away from them. 

Where _were_ they? The plan had been to get behind it while it was hunting and take it down. Disorganized fuzzbutts. He snorted angrily.

A roar, followed by whistling, had Stiles dropping instinctively. Muttering curses, he rolled. He sprang to his feet a yard from where he’d gone down.

Something…crunched. 

It was such a wet, unusual sound that he turned automatically.

The manticore was close enough to touch, chewing up something small and furry that it’d caught. It advanced, tail arcing high.

Stiles lunged for a fallen branch.

The tail flexed.

Derek dove in front of him. He staggered. A choked sound of pain escaped him.

Stiles leaped forward, catching him before he toppled over.

The pack descended on the manticore. 

Stiles concentrated on dragging Derek away from the fray. “Oh my god, dude, you weigh a freaking _ton_. Maybe chill on the raw eggs and protein shakes just a little bit. You better be alive,” he added breathlessly. “I’m going to be _pissed_ if you die. We are all supposed to make it. Part ways as unlikely friends.” 

Derek’s head rolled loosely on his neck; his face was pale as milk. 

“Ah, jeeze, did anyone check what happens to werewolves hit with manticore venom?” he called. He kept moving. Monster dispatching tended to get messy these days. Efficiency had gone up; blood shed had followed, though lately it had mostly been the creature of the week’s blood instead of theirs.

The spines had pierced Derek’s torso, starting near his upper right chest and down his abdomen. Thankfully, it looked like none had hit his heart. He was breathing, but barely, laborious, fluttery gasps that didn’t sound good.

Stiles studied the spines, pulling himself back emotionally. “Should I pull these out or what?” he called.

A thick squelching noise followed by a ground shaking thump answered him. 

He grimaced. 

Scott, Isaac, and Erica ran over while Boyd took care of dismantling the rest of the manticore. 

“It’ll bleed more if you take them out,” Isaac said.

“ _Werewolf_ ,” Stiles snapped. 

“We need gloves,” Scott declared. “We’ll get the venom on our hands if we remove them barehanded. Take him to the cars, we’ll need to find out if we need an antivenom or if he’ll heal on his own.”

“We don’t know that _already?!_ ” Stiles shouted. “Why didn’t anyone find that out!” 

“Research was _your_ job!” 

“Well—I—excuse me for not being able to find accurate and actionable information about a mythical monster on the _internet!_ You guys live with the two people who know the most about this—and you work with the third!” He pointed at Scott rather damningly.

Scott was not impressed or intimidated by his shouting. “I’ll call Deaton and let him know we’re on our way. Stiles-”

“I know, I know. To the jeep, minions.” 

Erica flicked something thick and bloody at him. 

 

Deaton had an antivemon already. He didn’t seem prepared so much as resigned that one of them had been injured. He was also unfazed by who it was and how he’d ended up wounded. 

“We’re becoming predictable,” Stiles told Derek’s unconscious form. “Gotta mix it up a bit, bro.”

“He’s fine,” Scott had said a half hour later. “Or he will be fine. We’re going to let him heal a bit, then Erica and Boyd are going to take him home. You should go get some sleep.”

So Stiles had left. 

He paced his room. Sleep. Hah! He hadn’t insisted on going with only because Scott was right: if another manticore showed up to finish Derek off, he was better guarded by the betas than a human, no matter how angry and ready to fight he was. 

He understood. He didn’t have to like it. 

He scrubbed his hands over his face. If he’d have stuck to the plan, if he’d have kept running like he was supposed to…

Well, then the manticore probably would have gone after the campers and caused a bigger problem. 

He just hated that Derek had gotten hurt for him.

Not that it meant anything in particular. 

Derek had been through enough without almost dying because Stiles couldn’t keep up. He just wanted to protect the guy. …Like he wanted to keep everyone safe. Obviously.

Stiles snorted and flopped face down on his bed. 

Derek was just—like one of those poor dogs with hurt, soulful eyes in those ASPCA commercials. Stiles couldn’t _help_ but want to protect him from further harm. It was just instinct, it didn’t _mean_ anything. 

He fell asleep telling himself that. 

 

_Stiles went round and round, methodically piling stone after stone. The wall wasn’t high enough. It had to be higher. He set a stone in front of the last and peered over the partially built wall. Derek’s back was to him, head tilted up to watch the approaching darkness._

_Stiles stared at the center of his tattoo and added another layer of stones._

Stiles stayed away the next day. Apparently Derek was awake and healing, but still pretty weak.

Scott told Stiles he was being ridiculous.

Stiles still felt guilty. He spent the day working out. If he wanted to keep this from happening again, he’d have to step up his game.

He collapsed onto the couch after his run and passed out.

_Derek was still facing away, still watching the darkness. He was trembling; a laugh slid out of the dark and he flinched, cringing away._

_Stiles added another layer of stones to the wall. He just had to keep building, keep raising it, and everyone would be safe. He was walking in a pattern that was somehow familiar, but he couldn’t figure out what it was._

_Derek cried out. Blood poured over his arm, but he still didn’t turn, cradling his wound and watching the monster approach._

_Stiles worked faster, his heart pounding. If he didn’t finish this wall, something terrible would happen, something awful._

He woke slowly; his eyelids felt glued together. It took all of his strength to get up, stumble to the bathroom, and use the toilet. He had to lean against the counter while he brushed his teeth. He felt like he hadn’t slept a wink. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and found several texts from Scott and the rest. 

Instead of reading them, he just called. “Hey, what’s going on?” he muttered.

“ _Not much. Just keeping you updated. You okay?_ ”

Stiles examined his reflection. Nothing a marathon of sleep wouldn’t fix. “Yeah, I’m good. I need to get some more sleep.”

“ _Derek asked if you were coming by,_ ” Scott said casually. “ _He wanted to know if you were okay._ ”

He snorted. “I’m fine. Nothing happened to me, remember? Just tell him I’m fine.”

“ _Are you going to come see him?_ ” Scott’s tone was weirdly insistent, and Stiles was having none of it.

“Probably not. I’m pretty tired, I wore myself out yesterday. I’m just going to veg and sleep, okay? Tell everyone hi for me.” He hung up before Scott could talk him into going. Everything was fine. 

 

_The sound of Derek’s pain was a uniquely terrifying thing. Stiles hadn’t heard anything like it, wounded and almost animal. He was on his knees, holding up a shaking hand at whatever was attacking him._

_Stiles watched the shift and flex of his tattoo as he heaved for breath. He laid the last stone. It was done._

Ringing woke him abruptly. “Wha’s’it?” he slurred.

“ _Have you been to the preserve today?_ ”

Stiles sat up and looked at the time with the one eye that he’d managed to open. He felt wrung out and useless. “What? No. Why?” 

Scott was quiet a beat. “ _Something happened._ ”

“What?” His heart hammered. “You can’t just say that and go for the dramatic pause, Scott, that’s seriously-”

“ _We can’t find Derek._ ”

Stiles’s heart dropped. “Oh, _crap._ Okay, you start with the Argents, I’ll assemble the betas.” 

“ _There’s something else, too._ ”

“What?” Stiles pressed his fingers to his mouth. He squared his shoulders. “Did you guys find blood? More manticores?” He stood up and started looking around for his clothes.

“ _No. There’s this…some kind of…thing appeared in the preserve. Your dad has some deputies out there roping it off now._ ”

“Roping—? What? Why?”

“ _Go see for yourself. But don’t get too close. We’ll be at Derek’s place looking for clues._ ”

“I’ll meet you there.” Stiles was already half-dressed, hopping on one foot trying to get his jeans on.

“ _Cool. Be careful._ ”

“In this town?” He snorted and hung up.

 

Probably every squad car the county sheriff’s department had to spare was at the preserve. And they _were_ doing their best to block it off. 

“Dad!” Stiles threw himself out of the jeep. “What happened?”

“I don’t want anyone going near it if we can help it,” he was saying. He held up a finger at Stiles. “We’re going to keep some deputies here to discourage anyone from poking around.”

“Okay.” The deputies he’d been speaking to scurried off to their tasks. 

“Do you have anything to do with this?” he asked tiredly.

Stiles’s high school career really should’ve prepared him for everything. “I want to say no, I don’t, but the odds of that are-”

“Pretty slim, yeah. Well, come on. Better go take a look. Otherwise, I want you to stay away from this. If it isn’t a—a certain type of problem, then we don’t know _what_ it is, and it could be dangerous.”

“Sure, right, of course.” He waved him on.

The sheriff led the way. They didn’t have to go far, and he didn’t have to explain.

The ground was raised in uneven mounds as far as Stiles could see, in all directions except where they’d come from. Some were half his height, others well over his head. He took a halting step forward.

“No, you don’t. First you find out if it’s supernaturally inclined, _then_ you poke it with sticks.”

Stiles made a face at him. “I wasn’t going to poke it with sticks.” He was going to use his hand. “I’ve never heard of anything that does this, though. Mole people?” He wanted to laugh, but he’d been proven wrong too many times before to discredit anything.

“I don’t know.” He rubbed his face. “Anything I should know?”

“Derek’s missing, and we killed a manticore a few days ago. But that shouldn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Derek’s _mis-_ ” 

“We’re about to go look for him. He was still…” Stiles grimaced guiltily. “Still healing from the manticore, so he couldn’t have gone far.”

Because he wasn’t stupid, Sheriff Stilinski gave him a sharp look, eyes flicking rapidly over his face. “Hmm. Alright. Keep me updated.”

“Will do. See you later. Be careful.”

He snorted. “In this town?” He didn’t know why that made Stiles laugh so hard, but it made him smile anyway. 

 

Stiles met the pack at Derek’s place, which was a three bedroom house on a suburban street slightly less depressing than his previous places. He was pretty sure there was a Home Owners Association that Isaac pretended not to be intimidated by and that Erica wanted to destroy. 

They paired off to search and spent the day checking likely places for a still-healing werewolf to crawl off to. No one could smell anything unusual—it seemed like he’d never actually left the house.

Stiles wondered if Linda the HOA president had killed him and buried him under his borderline illicit front garden.

“We’ll find him,” Scott said eight hours after they’d started searching. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.” 

“I’m sure.”

“He probably just went to clear his head.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“Get some air.”

“Sure.”

“Went to the— _what_ are you staring at?”

Stiles scrubbed his face. “Nothing. I just—what _is_ that, in the preserve?”

Scott’s face went grim. “I don’t know, but we should stay away from it until we figure it out.”

“What if Derek-”

“What? Derek can’t create hills,” Scott scoffed. “That’s probably some kind of giant gopher that has nothing to do with Derek’s disappearance.”

Stiles couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t _say_ that, it might be.”

“We’ll find him.”

“Right. Of course.” Stiles jerked his shoulders. “Why do you keep saying that? I know that. Go tell someone else that.” 

Scott stared at him, looking exasperated. 

Stiles stared back.

Scott sighed. “Just making sure to keep morale up, I guess.”

“Well, go boost morale somewhere else. My morale is fine.” 

He shook his head. “Fine. I’m going to round everyone else up. We’re making Derek’s place headquarters for the search, since that was his last known location.”

Stiles sniffled and pretended to wipe a tear away. “Last known location, look at you, sounding all official and grown up. I’m so proud.”

“Okay, asshole. Just go home. We’ll call you if anything happens.”

Stiles waved and went back to the jeep. He was still bone tired, though he couldn’t blame it all on the day long search. His dreams felt so vivid and real, like he was building that wall barehanded. 

He slowed as he passed the guarded entrance of the preserve. He stared at the spaces between the trees until the darkness seemed to lengthen, beckoning like the approaching dark in his nightmares. 

The deputies, Warren and Richards, waved as he passed. “You okay?” Warren called.

Stiles shook himself. “Yeah. Just a couple bad nights of sleep, you know.” He waved and sped up again.

He fell asleep as soon as he hit the bed. 

_Derek’s tattoo swirled dizzyingly while Stiles watched, transfixed. He was angry, swearing and stalking around. He was definitely wearing a shirt, so Stiles wasn’t sure how he was seeing his tattoo. He reached out to touch it, fascinated._

_Derek whipped around. “Stiles?”_

He sat up in bed, gasping. He scrubbed his burning eyes. A glance at his phone revealed that it was two thirty-seven in the morning. He officially hated his subconscious. He got out of bed. He was still wearing his jeans and socks. Grumbling, he did up his button and zipper, then located a shirt and his shoes. He was going to look for Derek some more. Maybe that would help him sleep.

They’d already tried the abandoned train car and the shady loft Derek had briefly lived in, but hadn’t found any sign of him. Everyone had voted to check the old Hale house in daylight, due to the weirdness going on in the preserve. 

Derek probably wasn’t there anyway. He wouldn’t want to go back to the place that made him feel terrible when he was already injured. 

Stiles put his phone in his pocket and grabbed his keys. Just in case. 

 

It was cold out; the heat had given up in the jeep a while back and though Derek had offered to take a look, Stiles wanted to fix it himself, which meant it was still broken this winter, too. It wasn’t a necessity, anyway.

The new dips and mounds in the preserve made it impossible to drive up to the ruins of the house, even following the overgrown driveway. 

Stiles huffed and climbed out of the jeep. After a second of hesitation, he grabbed a flashlight and his bat. “If I find your masochistic ass in that house, Derek, I’m going to…” What? _What are you going to do?_ he asked himself bitingly. _Wrap him up in a blanket? Sit with him a while? Say “don’t worry, Derek, I still love you even though you make crappy life decisions”?_

He shied away from that. He wasn’t here to make confessions or investigate his otherwise ruthlessly suppressed emotions. Now was the time for action. 

Luckily, navigating the preserve now took up most of his attention. The mounds were pretty solid, which meant there wasn’t water gathering under them, probably. They didn’t crumble under his touch or break under his weight. It was dark, too, so he fell over his own feet, roots, rocks, and branches about twelve times in under twenty minutes.

The house was shimmering when he reached it.

“Son of a bastard,” he muttered. He sent a text to Scott, letting him know where he was, even though he knew he was going in without backup. He was just that kind of stupid, apparently. It was a terrible idea; there was clearly something going on in the house or with the house, and yet he was marching determinedly toward the dilapidated porch stairs. There was a heaviness in the air, which he chalked up to nerves. 

The door was closed.

Stiles tilted his chin up to study it, one foot braced on the bottom step. There were holes in the walls and no windows, but the door was shut. Because security first, obviously. The thought prompted an uneasy laugh. He swallowed down the nervous snickers and stepped up onto the porch. A few boards creaked, but nothing gave. He called, “Derek? You in there, dude?” He shook his head at himself. If Derek _was_ in there, he probably wasn’t in any shape to be answering. “Look, I want you to know that I’m very mad at you for making me come all the way out here. This place is creepy and sad and you know it. Everyone was looking for you.” He pushed the door.

It swung open and thumped partway to the floor. It was hanging on by a single hinge; the bottom hinge had broken. 

Stiles tested the floor with his bat first, and then his left foot, pressing down to check the integrity before he stepped inside. He braced, squeezing his eyes shut, but the floor held. He let out a breath and took a step forward. He relaxed. He was sure it would hold his weight, all the way up until he fell through the floor. 

He didn’t fall for long; it seemed only a second later when he slammed, back-first, onto solid ground. Stunned, he laid there for a moment. He was winded, and dust was swirling around him, stinging his eyes. He closed them. “I regret…everything.” He waited a beat, then opened his eyes. Closed them. Opened. Rinse, repeat. 

There was a ceiling above him. A packed dirt ceiling, but definitely no giant gaping hole from which he’d fallen. 

He jumped to his feet. His flashlight was broken several feet from him, but he could see perfectly fine. The walls were made of gray stone, the floor from hard-packed dirt. It should’ve been pitch black, but everything was well-lit, somehow, impossibly. He made a slow, confused circle; there were no torches, windows, or lamps. 

“Right,” he said to himself, “of course.” He spotted his bat a few feet from where he’d fallen and grabbed it. 

Something shuffled along the ground.

He twisted around, cocking his bat over his shoulder. After a few yards, the walls curved, so he couldn’t see what was coming. Whatever it was, he was going to bash its face in.

Unless it didn’t have a face, which would be an entirely new problem to deal with. Stiles was having a spiral of disbelief and terror about hypothetical faceless monsters when a shape rounded the corner. He yelled and swung the bat.

A hand caught it. “ _Stiles?_ ”

“ _Derek?_ ” 

Derek blinked at him and let go of the bat. “How long have you been here? I _knew_ that was you I smelled!”

Stiles was flustered. “Ah—a few minutes? When did you smell me?”

He frowned. “Almost a half hour ago.”

When Stiles had been dreaming? He grimaced, but didn’t want to think about what that meant. “Have you been here this whole time?”

“What, the last two hours? Yeah. I fell asleep on the couch…” He flushed and looked away. “Then I woke up here.”

“Two—Derek, you were missing all day. Probably twenty hours at this point!”

“That can’t be right,” he said impatiently. “I’ve only been here two hours. Trying to find a way out.” He lit up. “How did you get in? Maybe we can get out that way!”

Stiles was shaking his head before he even finished. “I don’t think that’s the answer.” He pointed up. “I fell in from up there.”

Derek looked up. “ _How?_ ”

“I don’t _know_. I was just looking for you and…okay, you’re not allowed to be mad, because I—we were really worried! I went to look for you at your…old…house. And fell through the floor.”

Derek inhaled slowly and let it out. “Okay. So the pack should be looking for you too, now.”

Stiles winced. “Probably in a few hours…when Scott wakes up and gets the last text I sent him.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“I was worried about you!” Stiles turned away. “Okay, so what’ve you learned? You’ve been wandering for a while. What’s down here? Who put us here?”

“I don’t know. It’s just been stone walls and _me_ for two hours.” 

“Okay, so clearly time moves a little wonky in here.” He nodded. “Good to know. And because our luck is stellar, I’m just going to assume I have no signal.” He pulled his phone out and thumbed the screen. “Called it.” He sighed and stuffed it back in his pocket. “Alright. Standing here isn’t going to do us any good. You came from that direction?”

Derek nodded.

“So let’s follow this path.” Stiles started walking. As Derek fell in step beside him, he examined him from the corner of his eye. 

He looked okay; definitely not on death’s doorstep. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, barefoot. Comfortable, like he’d been napping when he arrived.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. He wished he hadn’t. Even he could hear the guilt in his voice.

“Fine.” He shrugged and kept walking. “I’m sure Scott kept you updated.”

Stiles couldn’t tell if his voice actually sounded cold or if he was projecting, so he nodded. “Thanks,” he said evenly. “For, you know. The life-saving.”

Derek grunted. “Was my turn.” He smirked a little.

Stiles relaxed enough to laugh at him. “Yeah, it was. I can’t _always_ be the one saving your…” The rest of the words died in his throat.

Something other than them was moving in the hall. Slow, shuffling steps, a muffled vocal noise.

Stiles’s skin crawled. “Where’s it coming from?” he breathed.

Derek’s eyes flicked to the far right; it was behind them. He held up a hand, telling him to wait, and tipped his head.

The halting, uneven steps grew closer. The muffled noises became dry “guh, guh, guh,” groans. 

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut briefly. Flexed his hands around his bat. Braced. He and Derek spun around at once.

There were four…

“Mummies,” Derek said blankly. “Those are mummies.”

Four _mummies_ were shambling toward them, wrapped in filthy bandages from head to toe. Blood stained two of them near the chest and face. Their steps were clumsy and lurching, hands out stretched in grisly, skeletal claws while their unraveling bandages dangled from bony wrists. 

Derek dragged him back a step, teeth bared like he could intimidate them. 

_Werewolves._ The things didn’t even have _eyes_. 

One shuffled closer, rotting fingers flexing as it reached for them. 

“We can probably out run them,” Stiles ventured as they crept back a few more feet.

Apparently the dead could still hear. One of the bloody ones leaped, claws first.

Derek snarled and shoved Stiles back a step. He and the mummy collided hard; it sounded like one of the mummy’s arms broke. That did not seem to stall it.

The other bloody one charged at Stiles _far_ too fast for comfort. He skipped back and swung his bat. 

It slammed into the mummy’s head from above with a twang, vibrating against Stiles’s palms. The mummy stumbled, shoulder banging into the wall.

There was a dent in its head the exact shape of his bat. 

“Oh, gross,” he grumbled. He swung again. When the mummy was plastered to the wall, he swung a third time with all his might.

Its head split open, crushed and disgusting for about two seconds before the entire thing crumbled to dust.

“Ha! Take that, you musty, disgusting-” He yelped as something clamped down on his shoulder, sharp points digging in. 

The third mummy dragged Stiles back mid-touchdown celebration, which was, frankly, rude. Its stiff, bandaged arms locked tight around his shoulders, crushing him against its thin chest.

“Ugh, oh my god,” he wheezed. “They stink, oh—so bad, oh my god.” He twisted his wrist and swung his bat as much as he could.

The mummy began shuffling them forward. It was trying to pin him to the wall.

“Hell no.” He threw his legs up and braced his feet against the wall. He kicked hard. 

_Crack!_ The mummy bent back at an almost ninety degree angle.

Stiles and the mummy collapsed to the ground. Its arms were still locked tight around his chest; something was poking sharply against his shoulder and back. He lifted his leg and slammed the heel of his shoe down on its shin.

The dry, old bones shattered on impact. The mummy tightened its grip on his chest, squeezing the breath out of him. 

Before he could figure out his next move, Derek leaned over them. He grabbed the mummy’s constricting arms and pulled. Bones splintered and snapped as he bent them backward. 

Stiles scrambled off the mummy as soon as he was free of its grasp. The sight was worse: bones stuck out of its arms and leg; its spine was clearly broken, and some ribs were jutting out of its chest. 

It was still moving, slow, twitchy jerks toward them.

Stiles swung his bat down on its head. Once it was dust, he slumped back against the wall, breathing heavily. “What the hell?” he demanded. “You were here all day and didn’t see those?”

“Two hours, and no. I’ve been alone.” Derek leaned next to him. “As usual, you’re a monster magnet.”

He grinned weakly. “Hah, yeah. I should get a tattoo. Like a warning label.” He rubbed his face. “That was gross.”

Derek nodded.

“Okay. We should keep moving.” Stiles rolled his shoulders and pushed off the wall. “Let’s hope there aren’t any more mummies though, seriously.”

“Hey, at least they weren’t that hard to kill,” Derek said as they started walking.

He snorted. “Yeah, _okay_.”

“They weren’t! Remember the rusalka?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, okay, the mummies weren’t so bad.”

“Definitely easier.”

They went quiet after that. Stiles hated it; he hated silence in all forms, and this place had no white noise, no wind, nothing. He didn’t want to be the one to break it, because Derek was clearly not in a hurry to say anything, but his ears were ringing already and—

“Why didn’t you come by?” Derek grimaced as soon as he said it.

“What?”

He started walking faster. “Never mind.”

Stiles had to half-jog to keep up with him. “When you were healing? Because I figured you needed some rest.”

“I did—I was resting.” He shook his head. “Just never mind.”

“No, dude, what is it? What?”

“ _Nothing._ ”

Stiles scowled. “Is it just that I didn’t come over? I wanted to give you some space. You _did_ get poisoned—envenomated?— on my behalf.”

“Yeah, and you couldn’t even come by to see me after I woke up!” Derek snapped. “I was worried about you,” he admitted grudgingly, glaring at the ground. 

Stiles’s face felt warm. “Oh. Well, then we’re both idiots. I was worried, too, that’s why I stayed away—to let you get some rest.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I kept having these weird ass dreams, which were just _exhausting_.” He was about to tell Derek about them, too, when Derek elbowed him lightly. “What?”

The look of surprise stamped across Derek’s face was not comforting. 

“Oh, god, is there another mummy?” He twisted his bat around anxiously. “Ahead or behind us?”

“It isn’t a mummy.” He swallowed audibly. “It’s…music? It sounds like music coming from behind us.” 

“Music-music, or someone-is-humming music?”

“What’s the difference?” Derek muttered. “We’re alone down here!”

“Yeah, except for the mummies! And if someone is humming, maybe someone else is down here looking for us.”

“Oh. No, it sounds like carnival music.”

Stiles frowned. “What, like—like a calliope or something?”

“I guess. I thought everyone knew what carnival music sounded like.”

“Uh, no.” He shook his head and shuddered. “I don’t think I’ve been to anything like that since I was about six.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, reaching up to scratch his cheek. “Dunno. My parents didn’t have the time or energy? We went once, I experienced it, we never went back.”

“You _experienced_ it?” Derek asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“You—did you have fun?”

“I was six,” he said dryly. “There was candy and sugar and games, what do you think?”

“I think you’re avoiding my question.” An unholy grin lit up his face. “Wait, are you-”

“Shh!” Stiles grabbed his arm. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” He could hear the music now, too, bright and fast, getting closer.

“What’s the matter?” Derek asked. “Were you afraid of the rides? Did the fun house scare you?”

Stiles shook his head. “Dude, the music is getting louder, I think we need to move.” He started walking faster, leaving Derek slightly behind.

“Why? Afraid a killer balloon animal is going to-” He sputtered as the music grew deafening.

“That isn’t _funny_ -” Stiles turned and yelped.

The clown was tall enough that it had to tilt its head to stand upright, avoiding the ceiling that was at least a foot and a half over Stiles’s head. It was wearing a red, blue, and purple one piece thing, with a poisonous-looking green flower pinned to the left side of its chest. Its teeth jutted out from both above and below its jaw; it had bright red hair. It was _laughing._

Stiles said, “Bye,” and turned to run.

The clown let out a high pitched laugh and stepped forward. It was so tall that one step brought it within spitting distance again. 

“You didn’t tell me you were afraid of _clowns!_ ” Derek darted out of its path with the ease of someone who did not fear brightly colored, noisy people in costume.

The clown laughed maniacally. 

“I didn’t think it was relevant!” Stiles snapped. The clown swiped at him; he leaped back and tripped over his own foot. He landed hard on his tailbone. He looked up at the clown, mouth gaped in terror. “Okay, okay, I’ve—I’ve definitely had this nightmare before,” he said breathlessly. He couldn’t lift his bat, couldn’t get to his feet, couldn’t _move_. He felt just as weak and powerless as he always did in his nightmares.

Derek scoffed.

The clown didn’t even look at him. It leaned down and opened its jaws wide, thick strings of saliva swinging on either side. 

Derek lunged at that moment and it was like the manticore all over again, Stiles being too slow or weak or human and Derek taking the fall for it.

The clown wasn’t interested in Derek; it let out crazed laughter and kept advancing on Stiles. 

Derek slashed its throat open.

Blood and glitter poured hot into Stiles’s lap.

The clown crumpled into dust. Its blood, unfortunately, did not.

Derek pulled him to his feet. “I didn’t know you were afraid of _clowns,_ ” he said again.

“Plenty of people are,” he replied stiffly. He held his arms away from his body and swallowed. “Did you also not know I can’t stand blood?”

“Ah, no, that one I knew about. I just figured you’d like it less if it were your blood.” He graciously helped Stiles shake some of the blood and glitter off. “That’s as good as it’s going to get, I think.”

Stiles stared at the pile of dust. “I swear I’ve had that nightmare before.”

“Sure. Like you said, plenty of people are afraid of clowns.” Derek beckoned him. “Come on. We still have to find a way out. Before more clowns show up.” He smirked.

“Ha-ha, yeah, it’s very funny.” Stiles started walking anyway. He didn’t want to be stuck here longer than he had to be. …Especially if there was a chance of more clowns.

“I just,” Derek began, “have trouble picturing you being afraid of clowns.”

“Please. They’re terrifying! Did you see that thing? And its _teeth?_ ”

“I saw an ugly clown with big teeth, but that clearly was a monster that _appeared_ as a clown. Regular clowns?” He shook his head. “You’ve faced down killers and werewolves, you helped cut the heart out of a rusalka, you just volunteered to be bait for a manticore, but you’re afraid of people in face paint and wigs, wearing colorful jumpsuits?”

Stiles shrugged. “They’ve always just creeped me out. And I _was_ afraid of that manticore, you know.”

“You still led it away from town.” He paused. “By yourself.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So it’s hard for me to picture that guy being afraid of a goofy person with rainbow hair.”

“Ta-da,” Stiles said dryly. 

Derek shook his head and sighed. 

 

“Oh my god, it’s like we’re going in circles!” Stiles complained. “I’m having déjà vu. We’ve walked through here before.” 

“We’ve been walking in the same direction for an hour, and we haven’t passed your busted flashlight, the mummies’ remains, or the clown blood.” Derek looked at him sideways. “Is your phone still keeping time?”

He fumbled it out of his pocket. “Says it’s six in the morning.” 

Derek turned his wrist so he could see the screen. “That’s not possible!”

“Why not?” he asked dully. “We fought off a killer clown and some mummies. What’s impossible after that, Mr. Werewolf?”

“When you checked for signal, it was only three! It can’t be six already!” 

Stiles was more concerned with the mummies and clown than the time. “We haven’t been making any progress. Maybe we’re walking in circles. The walls _are_ curved.” 

Derek looked at one of the walls. “Here.” He flicked his claws out and scratched the wall, digging gouges into the stone. “Now we’ll know if we pass this part of the wall again.” 

“Ooh, have you tried punching or digging your way out yet?”

“Yeah. The ceiling and walls never give more than that.” He jerked his thumb at the scratches they’d already left behind. 

“Damn.” Stiles scuffed his shoe against the ground. “Well, I guess we keep walking, then.” 

Derek sighed heavily. 

“What?”

He gestured ahead of them. “There’s something snuffling up there.” 

Stiles sighed, too. “Wanna take bets on what it is?”

“Sphinx? Lion? A bear?”

He laughed.

Derek looked proud of himself.

“At least it isn’t coming up behind us this time,” Stiles said. “We’ll see what it is right away.” 

“Sure.”

He twirled his bat. He was kind of getting over the whole _there’s a monster!_ thing. Sure, the clown had been the stuff of nightmares, but the mummies were just gross. What else could possibly happen? “Dude, what do we do if it _is_ a normal animal?” he asked as the thought occurred to him. “We can’t kill a lion, we aren’t monsters!”

“Speak for yourself,” Derek muttered.

Stiles punched his shoulder. “That’s not funny. I’m serious!”

“If we’re trapped down here with an actual _lion_ , I don’t think we’ll have much of a choice.” He inhaled deeply. “Doesn’t smell feline.”

“What does it smell like?”

“I don’t know. Nothing very familiar. A barn, maybe. Sort of.”

“Maybe it’s a centaur.” That would be interesting, he thought. They could probably reason with a centaur. “Do you think-”

“I don’t think anything. I’m not making bets.”

“Spoil sport.” He grinned. “C’mon, Derek, you’re the one with the edge; you can smell _and_ hear it before me.”

He snorted and shook his head. 

“Fine. How far away is it?”

“Should be coming up. Get your bat ready.”

“My bat’s always ready.”

Derek rolled his eyes.

Stiles snickered.

Something snorted. It was a distinctive noise that reminded him of a cow. 

“What, is it a cow monster?” he whispered. 

Derek frowned and shrugged. 

They rounded the curved wall together. 

A huge, dark shape charged them.

Stiles shouted and swung his bat.

It connected with a _twang_ and flew out of his hands. The hit had only somewhat thwarted the creature, which stumbled back and snorted again.

Panting with fear—Stiles was way too young to have a heart attack, but his heart was trying anyway—he looked at the creature. 

It wasn’t as tall as the clown, but its horns brushed the ceiling. Its body was human, somewhat, and muscular like a body builder. Its head, however, looked like a bull, complete with sharp horns. 

“That’s…” Stiles looked back in the direction they’d come from, looked at the walls and the floor. “Derek,” he said excitedly, “I think I know-”

The Minotaur charged at Derek while Stiles was talking.

Derek roared and ran at it, too. He slammed into its torso and bounced off, landing on his ass. He looked so shocked that Stiles could have laughed. 

The Minotaur snorted and backed up, preparing to charge him again. From that angle, he’d probably get an eye gouged by its horns.

Stiles rushed it from the side. He had no plan; Derek couldn’t knock the thing over, so he had no chance, but he couldn’t just stand there. He ran hard into its side; it swung a muscular arm at him. He grabbed it and clung on.

It made some sort of furious roar noise, much less impressive than Derek’s, and swung its arm around.

Stiles realized his mistake when his feet left the ground. He held on for dear life. The bright side of his new terrible situation was that the Minotaur had definitely forgotten about Derek as it whipped Stiles around. It twisted, swinging its arm up high, nearly into the ceiling.

The sudden altitude change loosened his grip. He screamed as he plummeted down, throwing his hands out. He caught something smooth and hard and held on. A hot huff of air to his face had his eyes snapping open.

The Minotaur’s eyes were bloodshot with rage and enormous. It roared and shook its head violently. 

Stiles felt like his bones were rattling around. 

“Don’t let go!” Derek shouted.

He couldn’t speak, or he’d have told him exactly what he thought of his advice. 

The Minotaur stumbled, then, with a grunt, charged forward with Stiles still dangling from its face like unfortunate facial jewelry. 

Its horns rammed loudly into the wall; Stiles’s heart lurched as something gave under his hands. He kicked his legs frantically, bracing his feet on the thing’s abdomen for purchase. 

It roared again and tossed its head aggressively. 

Something cracked sharply and Stiles sailed through the air. He slammed back into the wall. He heard Derek shout but couldn’t make out what he said. He closed his eyes. 

 

Derek was kneeling in front of him, his face ashen and worried. “Hey, come on, stay awake this time.”

Stiles blinked at him. “What d’you mean, this time?” He groaned. “Oh my god, my head hurts. Do I have a hangover? Please, please tell me I do and that was all a nightmare.”

“Sorry,” Derek said with a sympathetic smile. 

“I assume that since you’re not dragging me away, the Minotaur is dead?”

He nodded. “You broke off one of its horns, which turned out to be a better weapon than your bat.” He held it up. Both the sharp and broken ends were bloody.

“Huh. Who knew?” He rubbed his temple. “Okay. We should get moving again.”

“Take a minute.” 

“No, we really should get going. We’re basically monster bait here.” 

“Stiles.” He pressed his free hand against his chest, pinning him gently in place. “Take a minute. You were completely unconscious for a couple minutes. You probably have a concussion.”

He scowled. “Yeah, okay,” he muttered. “But aside from my headache, I feel fine.” 

Derek hummed. “You were saying something before the Minotaur charged me. What was it?”

He frowned, trying to remember. “I realized—oh!” He sat up straight, then slumped as nausea seized him. “Whoa, ugh, awful.” He swallowed a couple times. “Okay. So, the Minotaur, the long, featureless…tunnel? I think we’re in the labyrinth.” 

Derek lifted his brows. “A lab-”

“Not _a_ , _the_. Like the Greek one? No, listen, I was just reading about it the other night-”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why were you looking into the Greek labyrinth?”

Stiles stared at him. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.” He waved a hand. “ _Anyway,_ Daedalus built it to keep the Minotaur in, so _that_ makes sense, and if Minotaurs are real, why not the other myths?”

“Okay…but why the clown and the mummies?”

Stiles bit his lip. “Well, I…don’t know…for sure. But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“As much sense as anything down here,” Derek muttered. “I guess.” 

Stiles rubbed his eye. “Well, the sucky part is that even the Daedalus guy who built it had trouble getting back out. I don’t know how _we’re_ going to.” He smiled wanly. “Most likely _not_ by just sitting here, though.” 

“Maybe just a little longer.”

“No, really. We should get going.” He braced his hand on the ground, ready to push himself up. Blinding pain halted him in place; his eyes watered.

“See?” Derek huffed. “Relax a second.” He leaned in.

Stiles jerked back, pressing into the wall. “What’re you doing?” he croaked.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Relax,” he repeated. “I’m just checking your head.” He slid his hand through the short hair at the back of Stiles’s neck, then felt upward. He tsked. “There’s a big knot back here, but I think your skull is still in one piece.”

Stiles’s head tipped forward as Derek massaged his scalp. It wasn’t until Derek snatched his hand away a minute later that he realized he’d closed his eyes. He sat up straight. “Sorry,” he said, mortified.

“You’re not supposed to sleep with a concussion,” Derek muttered. “You’re right, we should get moving. Do you think you can stand?”

“Yes.” He grimaced. “But I will need help getting up, I think.”

Derek nodded and, without warning, grabbed Stiles by the elbows and lifted. He didn’t seem to notice for a second that he was holding him a couple inches off the ground, gazing up at him. He smirked. “How’s it feel to be taller?”

“Screw you, we’re the same height!” 

“Mmhm.” Derek set him on his feet. “Sure.”

“We are!” Stiles leaned closer, froze, and swayed back. “Oh, gross.”

Derek looked offended. “Excuse me?”

Stiles flapped a hand. “Not—not you, just get away, oh, god.” Nausea filled his mouth with saliva; his head throbbed. 

“Stiles—?”

“No, no, stay over there,” he gasped. “Just give me a second.” He swallowed thickly, breathing through his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut to try to combat the wooziness, but it only helped a little. “Okay. I think I’m—” He bent over and narrowly missed getting sick all over his shoes. 

“Stiles!” He put a hand on his back. “Okay, you’re in no shape to be going anywhere, we’re going to just, just wait until you’re better, then we’ll go.”

Stiles shook his head and whimpered. “We have to get out of here.” He wiped his mouth on his shirt, grimacing, and took a deep, bracing breath. He straightened up. His head spun, but the nausea had gone away. “See? Better already.” He just had a killer headache.

Derek looked doubtful, brows all furrowed and concerned. “Fine.”

“Good.” The first few steps were the worst. Stiles felt like his head was just going to fall off and roll away, but once he got used to walking gingerly, he was okay. He knew he was unsteady on his feet even without Derek hovering close enough to feel his breath on his neck, but at least he was moving. “Where’s my bat?”

“Up ahead a little. It got some air when I hit the Minotaur with it.”

“Oh. Where’s the body?”

“Dust, like the others.”

“Right.”

Derek scooped the bat up when they reached it, not trusting Stiles to be able to bend and come back up. A wise choice, really.

“I’ll carry it,” he said when Stiles held his hand out.

“It’s _my_ bat!”

“You can barely walk!”

“I’m walking fine! Give it.” 

Derek rolled his eyes, but handed it over.

After a few minutes, Stiles said, “I would do terrible things for a painkiller right now. And some sunglasses.” He kicked at the dirt underfoot. 

Derek clamped a hand on the back of his neck.

“ _Oooh,_ yes, okay.” He went almost boneless as the pain from his head slipped away, slowly, like Derek was scared to pull it away too fast. “And now all I need is a bed,” he slurred. “I could just take a little nap here.” He tilted his head down, examining the dirt. 

“No. Keep walking.”

“Why?” he whined. “I’m tired.”

“You’re going to keep walking.”

“I’m _tired_ from having nightmares about _you_ for days.”

“No, you’re tired because you have a head injury.” He nudged Stiles. “If you keep walking, I’ll keep taking the pain away.”

Stiles sighed heavily. “You’re the _best_ ,” he slurred. 

“Did you really have nightmares about me?” he murmured. 

Stiles flushed. “I—well, I—” He caught sight of Derek’s expression—barely masked horror and resignation—and understood. “ _Oh._ Not _about_ you, like you’re the one making it a nightmare.”

“I’m confused.”

Stiles sighed. “That’s probably because I sound like a crazy person.” He squeezed his eyes shut, nearly tipping into the wall.

Derek’s hand flexed on the back of his neck, keeping him upright. “What are you talking about?”

“Okay, don’t get weird, alright? I just…I felt guilty, okay! I felt guilty that you got hurt because of me and so I was having, erm, troubled dreams. About you. Getting hurt.” His face was so hot. He was probably bright red. He might start giving off steam in a minute. This was awful. He’d almost rather deal with the clown again. Almost. “Ahem. So, you know. I was getting pretty crappy sleep and was exhausted and I’m still tired.”

“Yeah, okay. You’re still not taking a nap.” He slowly let go of Stiles’s neck. “You good?”

“Yeah.” His head wasn’t hurting much, just a dull throbbing. He suspected it would start hurting more once the pain drain thing wore off.

“What happened in your nightmares?”

Stiles scratched his nose. “Just—you getting hurt. You know.”

“Okay.” 

He thought of the wall he’d been frantically trying to build, his sleeping brain trying its hardest to protect Derek from any more harm. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He let out a quiet breath. “I was trying to keep you safe.”

“What?”

“That’s what my nightmares were about. I saw you get hurt— _again_ —and I was trying to keep you safe.” He shrugged when Derek stared at him. “You’ve been through enough, dude.” 

His face scrunched up. “How hard did you hit your head?” He reached out.

Stiles batted his hands away, annoyed and embarrassed. “Forget it,” he snapped. The tunnel they were in curved again; Stiles’s head throbbed with the familiarity of it. “We’re going in circles,” he muttered.

“We haven’t been through here before,” Derek replied.

“Then why does it feel like we’re going in circles?”

“I don’t _know_. Maybe because the walls are curved, or because it all looks identical?” He threw his hands up.

Stiles went quiet. Talking was making his headache come back, and it was hard enough to walk like this without blinding head pain. He didn’t realize he was walking with his head down until Derek stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “What?” he mumbled. He lifted his head. Something small and _young_ in the back of his brain flinched. He tipped his head, fascinated and horrified in equal measures. “Is that…the woogey?”

Derek whipped around. “The what?” He shook his head. “Okay, you sit down, I’ll get rid of them, and we’ll deal with your stroke later.”

Stiles huffed impatiently. “No, Derek, shut up. They’re—the woogey is…the monster I _swore_ was under my bed as a kid. And—I think that’s the closet shadow.”

The two creatures in front of them were just as scary as Stiles remembered them being, especially now, as he’d never before seen them in the light. 

The woogey was mostly black shadow, brilliant, green eyes glaring out of the shifting depths of its mass. It had teeth, too, flashing bright white above its eyes. 

Stiles could remember being terrified of it; his mother would spray a water and lavender mix under his bed and call it Monster Repellant. She’d even made a label for the bottle.

The other creature was more a recurring nightmare than anything; it was tall and thin, glowing white, human shaped with massive, criss-crossing scars all over it. It had an indistinct face. 

“I, uh, used to call that one the closet shadow.” 

Derek looked at it, then at Stiles. “Why?”

“Because I thought it was in my closet, obviously.” 

Neither of the creatures were moving; well, they weren’t moving _much._ The woogey was shifting restlessly in place but they weren’t advancing.

“So…how did you get rid of them before?”

Stiles grimaced. “Uh, my mom sprayed them with Monster Repellant.” 

He was quiet a beat. “Did she get that at Target, or…?”

He smacked the back of his hand on his arm. “Don’t be a jerk, it was water and lavender.”

“I don’t see why that would work.”

“And more importantly, we don’t have any with us anyway.” Stiles lifted his bat. He felt a little like a child again, about to face down the woogey and the closet shadow. “Come on, we just…have to get past them.”

Derek eyed him. “I’ll take…that one.”

“The woogey.”

“I’m not calling it that.”

“That’s what it _is_.” 

“You’re thinking of a boogey monster.” 

“I had trouble with B words as a kid. It’s the woogey.” 

Derek’s face cycled through several expressions. “Fine,” he bit out. “I will deal with the _woogey_.” He looked at them. “It’s kind of freaking me out that they aren’t doing anything.”

“Maybe there’s some kind of supernatural tripwire we haven’t hit yet.” Stiles looked at his bat thoughtfully.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Derek shot him a flat look. “I will go first and _if_ they move, you can go for the terrifying thing over there. How you’re more afraid of the “woo-gey” than that thing, I will never understand.”

“Did you just use air quotes?” Stiles wondered. “Fine. But if you _do_ make it across, then what?”

“Then you follow and we keep going.”

“Awesome.”

Derek approached the creatures. 

Stiles rocked forward on the balls of his feet, bat cocked and ready to swing.

The pale, scarred one turned as Derek neared the woogey, but before it could do anything, the woogey shot at him. Its fangs closed around his right shoulder.

He snarled and swiped at it; his claws went straight through the insubstantial mist its body was made of.

Stiles ran forward. He jabbed the end of his bat into one of its eyes. 

It let out an unholy screech, its jaws flying apart.

Derek scrambled back, tripping over his own feet. He landed on his knees and clutched his bleeding arm. He looked up as the closet shadow advanced on him.

Stiles froze; his gaze skipped over Derek, watching the creature approach, to the woogey, which was hovering behind it. 

The scene was…frighteningly familiar. He darted forward and swung at the closet shadow. 

It made an awful noise as the bat connected, toppling back into the woogey.

Stiles helped Derek up and scrambled back a few feet. He looked at the stone walls thoughtfully. He brushed his fingers over the stone, recognizing it. His breath hitched. Was he dreaming? Was all of this—the search, the weirdness in the preserve, finding Derek—all in his head? He lifted his hands, flexing his fingers around his bat. He’d certainly felt the pain when he’d hit the wall.

“Stiles?” Derek prodded his arm. “What are you doing?”

Stiles looked at him. “I dreamed of-” He waved his hand back at the creatures, which were still once more. “That. You, hurt, on your knees.”

“Okay, _so_? That happens. Especially in our lives.”

“No, I mean…” He rubbed his face. “What if I’m _still_ dreaming, dude?”

Derek held up his left palm, smeared with blood. “You’re not dreaming,” he said flatly.

Stiles winced. “Sorry, are you okay?”

“Yes,” he muttered impatiently. “It’s healed.”

“Maybe we’re somehow, like. Stuck inside my head.” Stiles touched the wall again. It was so familiar to him.

“We aren’t _in your head,_ ” Derek scoffed. “Tell me about your nightmares. You said you were trying to protect me in them. How?”

Stiles _so_ didn’t want to get into that, but… He looked at the blood smeared down Derek’s arm. “Fine,” he mumbled. “You aren’t allowed to make fun, okay? It was just—guilt. And worry. If anyone else had gotten hurt, I’d have dreamed about them, too.”

“Stiles, just tell me.”

“Fine! I dreamed I was building a wall around you, okay? To—to keep you safe in. And I just kept seeing you get hurt, so I kept building.” 

“What kind of wall?” he asked slowly, looking at the stone around them.

Stiles cringed. “A big one. I was…laying stones.” He scratched his cheek. “Any chance this isn’t my fault?”

Derek ignored this. “Well, if those _things_ are from your childhood nightmares, I bet we can walk past them.”

“Um, dude, the Minotaur came right at me. I don’t think they care whether they harm me or not.”

Derek nodded. “Okay. When you were dreaming, what happened to me?”

“Why do we have to go back to the dreams?” he complained. “Can’t we just rush them and run away like with the others?”

“ _No_ , because that one is made of smoke.” Derek scowled. “And you can barely walk, let alone run. Maybe…” His face flushed. He cleared his throat. “Maybe if you walk by to—with the intent of—” He sighed heavily. “Maybe if you lead the way with the intent of protecting _me_ , we can get through.” 

Stiles looked at them. “I don’t think-”

“Just try.” He clenched his fists. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll fight them.”

Stiles nodded. “Okay.” He squared his shoulders. “I guess stay close then.” He walked toward them before he could change his mind or chicken out. 

Derek stayed directly behind him. 

Stiles knew technically he was supposed to be protecting Derek in this, but he also knew that if one of those things so much as twitched, Derek was going to fight them. If he fought them, he’d get hurt again. Stiles remembered the pained sounds he’d made in his nightmares and stood straighter. He clutched his bat and held his breath. 

The woogey backed away, toward the other one, as they passed. 

They kept walking, putting a safe distance between them before they turned back. “They’re gone,” Stiles said with some surprise.

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned, covering his face. “Are you saying I did this?” He looked at the walls. “With my _dreams_?”

“Well, Deaton always thought you had _some_ magic.” He held his fingers up, pinching them together. “A little bit. Maybe enough stress just…set it off.”

Stiles looked at the ceiling, then the floor. “So, what…how do we get out then?”

“Tell me everything about your dreams, even little details. Maybe you forgot something.”

“I didn’t dream about _any_ of those things.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Not just recently. I’ve never dreamed about mummies or the Minotaur.”

Derek nodded. “But you were thinking about the Minotaur and the Labyrinth recently, right? What about the mummies?”

Stiles grimaced. “Uh, yeah. A few weeks ago. Scott wanted to know what kind of undead baddies we might encounter one day,” he said defensively. 

“Tell me your dream details.”

“There isn’t much to tell! You were facing away, something was coming, I was building a wall to stop it-”

“How do you know it was a wall?”

“What? The gigantic _stones_ I was piling up.”

“But you said you were going around.”

He threw his hands up. “So it was a curved wall, so what?”

Derek looked around them. “I don’t think it was a wall. I think-”

Stiles gasped. “Oh. Oh _crap._ ”

“What?”

He pressed his knuckles into his forehead, massaging the skin to coax the thought forward. “I think I know what happened.” He could practically see the pattern in his mind, now that he was thinking of his dreams. No wonder he’d been feeling déjà vu the whole time. 

“Tell me,” Derek said grimly, prepared for the worst.

Stiles dropped his gaze, so mortified he thought he’d never be able to look him in the eye again. “The research I did into the Greek labyrinth must’ve gotten to me. Um, in my dream, I…may have been…staring…at your tattoo…while I built. And I may…have been going in a familiar pattern.”

“Okay…?”

Stiles sighed impatiently. “Derek, I’m pretty sure I magically trapped you in a [triple spiral labyrinth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Labyrinth#/media/File:Triple-Spiral-labyrinth-variant.svg).” He bit his lip. “With apparently all sorts of things from my dreams and thoughts, so I don’t know how _safe_ it is.”

Derek shook his head. “Nothing showed up until you got here.”

“Great! So now you’re trapped here, _and_ I’m the one who brought the danger. Perfect.” He forced himself to meet Derek’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “We should keep going.”

“Why? There’s no way _out_ , it just goes to the center spiral!” 

“Maybe there’ll be something there,” he said lightly. “Come on.”

“I have a headache,” he grumbled. But he went with, if only to make sure none of his nastier nightmares killed Derek.

 

Stiles’s phone said it was eleven after an hour more of walking. They hadn’t spoken much, though Stiles did catch a tiny smile on Derek’s face every now and then. It made him flush every time. Because obviously Derek was mocking him. There was no other reason to be blushing when Derek was smiling. Of course not.

“Is that-?” he started when they found another nightmare.

“Hah, yeah. I mean, Jackson I’m not too afraid of, but the giant, monstrous lizard he turned into? Definitely.”

The kanima shifted on its feet slightly. Behind it was a partially shifted werewolf, its features indistinct but definitely twisted in a snarl. 

Derek froze.

“Heh.” Stiles rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, that—that’s an older one. I _was_ sixteen when this all started. Come on, let’s just go around them.” He stepped toward them; he’d faced _these_ nightmares in person already. He wasn’t afraid of them. He was more afraid to see the hurt and guilty look on Derek’s face.

The kanima and werewolf moved aside as they walked past them. 

“So that was uncomfortable. Let’s hope something less terribly awkward comes up next. I’ve had plenty of nightmares about going to school pantsless, or confessing my feelings into a loud speaker accidentally, or-”

“Stiles, it’s fine. You’re right, you were sixteen when you got involved. It’s to be expected.”

He groaned. “Okay, but now you’re doing the gruff, otherwise-completely-devoid-of-emotion voice that means you’re upset.” He waved a hand behind them. “Come on, you know Scott tried to kill me way more than you. That was probably him.”

Derek didn’t look appreciative of that fact. He tilted his head though. “Hear that?”

Stiles sighed. “No, we’ve been over this, humans can’t hear as—wait, is that an echo?”

“Yeah.”

They shared a look, then raced forward.

The hall opened up into a large room, set slightly lower than where they’d come from. There were drawings in the dirt of the triple spiral pattern; most were uneven or crooked, all in various sizes. 

Stiles got the feeling that if he traced them, he’d find the lines the same width as his index finger.

Derek stepped around them as well as he could, walking to the center of the room. He looked up at the ceiling, so far above his head that he couldn’t touch it even if he jumped. 

Stiles looked up, too. The pattern was in the ceiling, one enormous triple spiral. The room didn’t have any other halls branching from it. Just the hall they’d come from. 

“How are we supposed to get out?” Stiles pulled his hands through his hair, gasping when he bumped the knot on the back.

Derek looked at him and paled.

“What?”

“Come here.”

He stiffened. “Why? What’s behind me? Just tell me,” he hissed.

“Nothing.”

Stiles looked over his shoulder. He felt himself slump. He laughed so loud it echoed. “Oh, of course.”

The hall they’d come from had sealed up, solid wall just like the rest of the room.

He stumbled down the slope so he was standing with Derek. He rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry for this. Jesus. We’re probably-” His voice hitched. He hated that. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why it sealed us in.” 

Derek looked at the wall over his shoulder. “I do.” He smiled a little. “I made it to the center. Where it’s safe.”

Stiles groaned and covered his face. “So now we’re stuck down here forever because magic applied dream logic to the real world?” He dropped his head. “I’m-”

“Stop apologizing,” he said quietly. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I actually…” He sighed and cast a long look around the room. He jerked his shoulders a bit, like he’d decided _to hell with it._ “I’m actually….touched,” he said gruffly, “that you were so worried about keeping me safe that you built this in your sleep.”

Stiles’s jaw dropped. A thousand flippant, joking responses rushed through his head. He said, “You deserve that.”

Derek looked stunned. “What?”

“You deserve this, you deserve to be worried about, and protected, and treated like you’re special.” Stiles’s cheeks flamed.

Derek’s smile lit his whole face.

The room shook. Cracks snaked their way up the walls, down across the floor and over the ceiling. A rumble took over the room, so loud Derek had to clap his hands over his ears. 

“It’s falling!” he shouted.

Stiles looked up and swore. 

Fissures snaked across the ceiling, cracking the spiral into pieces. Chunks began to crash to the floor around them.

He reached out at the same time Derek did; they yanked each other close and held tight. Stiles pressed his face into Derek’s neck and closed his eyes. 

 

When he opened them moments later, it was to sunlight, filtering its way valiantly through dense trees. He jerked back, gasping.

Derek looked around. He turned in a slow circle. “How…”

“I don’t—I’m not…” Stiles lifted his hands helplessly. “I don’t know.”

Derek eyed him. Then he smiled mischievously; it did pleasant things to Stiles’s heart. “You know, I would’ve settled for some flowers, or some coffee. You didn’t have to build an elaborate labyrinth to confess your feelings.”

Stiles’s mouth dropped open. “Wha…” His gaze dropped to the ground, where the labyrinth had crumbled and disappeared. “The Greeks knew the value of a gesture, Derek,” he said haughtily, as if his heart wasn’t pounding with fear and exhilaration. “I _thought_ you would, too.”

Derek tipped his chin down, his smile softening. He hooked a finger in Stiles’s belt loop and towed him closer. “So…dinner? Tonight?”

“Yeah. Tonight.”

He grinned and then kissed him, gentle, sweet, over too soon. “Good.”

“ _Guys!_ ” Scott’s voice shattered the moment. “I found them! They’re over—they’re kissing—what?”

Stiles figured they’d have to tell them sometime and went for broke. He grabbed Derek’s face and gave him a real kiss.


End file.
